


por besarte

by guineaDogs



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cops, M/M, State Troopers, a weird spin on a bakery au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 17:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18877927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineaDogs/pseuds/guineaDogs
Summary: Cryle Week, Day 5.Craig moved from the San Luis Valley to Pueblo for a change of pace, not to have some stupidly cute State Trooper pull him over to flirt with him. And, yet, that become his new reality.





	por besarte

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhhhh so this is supposed to be a rivalry prompt, so this is stretching the prompt a little, but here it is anyway. Originally I was going to do something else (which I'm just saving to work on later), but I was pulled over by a trooper this week and the encounter was very confusing and it inspired me. So did the music I was listening to that day.

Mornings in the summer were rough. Mornings in the winter were rough too, but they were different. He’d take the late sunrise and sometimes icy roads over those obnoxiously early sunrises, where the sunrise was just high enough in the sky that his visor couldn’t adequately block it out, that even though he was wearing sunglasses, the sun managed to irritate him in just the worst ways.

As if his the morning light filtering into his room at five-fucking-thirty in the morning wasn’t torture enough.

The only consolation he had was that the drive was a beautiful one. It always was. He enjoyed driving through ranching country, particularly here: there were buttes and mesas, shrubs and piñon pine, pronghorns grazing among the horses, cattle, and the occasional mule and alpaca. He liked the ups and downs, the twists and turns of the interstate. He loved the mountains that were almost always in view: the Wet, the Sangres, the Huajatolla. 

It almost made up for the fact that he was having to make this commute so early in the morning. He should have told Tweek no, he couldn’t do it, but Craig had felt obligated the moment Tweek asked. He’d been kind enough to give him a job at bakery he owned, to let him rent a room in the his upstairs apartment in downtown Pueblo. 

_ It’s what friends do, man,  _ he’d said, and perhaps that was true, but it meant a lot that Tweek was helping him get settled in a new city. So of course he’d agreed to deliver catered baked goods by the ungodly hour of seven forty-five a.m. The bakery may not have opened until eight five days a week, but Craig knew that his friend arrived around four in the morning to get started. Really, he would’ve been a major dick to refuse this errand.

He just wished he’d been functional enough that morning to make coffee. Tweek always had some brewed at work, so Craig normally caffeinated as he started the work day. Today, he wasn’t so lucky. 

But he had his music, so there was that. He played it loudly, unabashedly, sang along only in the way he would allow himself when he was alone as he tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. It wasn’t a selection of music that made sense; it was filled with tejano, with mariachi, with rap and reggaetón and more. But it was music he liked, and what he felt like listening to, and that was enough reason for this compilation to exist. He didn’t need to explain himself to anyone.

So he enjoyed the his music, he enjoyed his drive as much as he could. Fortunately there weren’t a lot of other drivers on the road; there tended not to be here in general, particularly in comparison to the northern half of the Front Range, but there were even fewer right now. He couldn’t have been more relieved for it, as so many other drivers were  _ stupid. _

Like the semi that he soon came upon. There weren’t harsh winds rolling off the mountains, and this stretch of I-25 was flat. It was perfectly reasonable to pass it. He flicked on his blinker, and hardly needed to speed up to get in front of the truck. Craig even checked the speedometer: 80 mph in a 75. That wasn’t breaking any rules.

He waited until he could see the truck’s headlights in his rearview mirror before merging out of the passing lane. There just  _ happened _ to be a state trooper in front of him, but it was nothing to worry about. Probably. He knew he hadn’t broken any rules. It was fine. Craig didn’t sweat over it. 

The trooper was driving under the speed limit, though. His car’s speed lowered to 75. Then 70. 68. This was fucking  _ obnoxious. _ He glanced to the clock on his dash, watched the minutes tick away. Not only was he impatient, but he head a deadline and he couldn’t be late for it. 

But there weren’t rules against passing cops, either. If he used his blinker, if he didn’t exceed the speed limit, it would be fine. At first, that was how it played out. When the trooper merged into the passing lane behind him, Craig assumed that maybe the cop just wanted to be ahead of the pack and would speed up.

Instead he merged back over behind Craig’s SUV. It was about half a mile later that red and blue lights flashed behind him.

“Mother _ fucker, _ ” Craig muttered. Turning on his emergency lights, he slowed, pulling to park on the broad shoulder of the interstate. Car in parked, engine off, he considerably lowered the volume of his music and gripped the steering wheel. As he saw the trooper approach, there was part of him that was relieved that C-Kan was playing, and not the LU song that had been just prior.

Steeling himself, he rolled down the window as the officer came up to his window. Leaning against it with his arm over the top frame of door, Craig realized some very obvious and unhelpful conclusions: the trooper was  _ cute. _ Craig couldn’t see his eyes, as he wore those cliche aviators that only offered his own reflection instead. But he had a strong jaw, high cheekbones, perfect lips… and  _ fuck, _ even his hair was nice. The sides were buzzed short, but there curls atop.

How dare this  _ dick _ —which was absolutely what this guy was by virtue of pulling him over—be attractive? 

“Good morning. How are you doing?” Fucking hell. Was this guy really trying to be conversational? This was  _ bullshit. _

“I’m fine, you?” Craig hated small talk. But he could play nice when he absolutely had to, and this was one of those moments.

“Just fine,” the officer replied, and fortunately got to the point not long after. “The reason I pulled you over was because you passed that semi a little fast. I know no one likes being behind them but it’s important to be careful around them.”

“Oh.” Bullshit. This was the biggest load of  _ bullshit _ . “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not going to give you a citation this morning; I just want you to be careful out there.” He paused just a moment to jot down the VIN number that was visible from the windshield. “But I’m going to need to see your license, registration, and proof of insurance.”

“Of course. Give me a second.” Instead of just leaving him in silence as he reached over to the glove box for his registration, the cop decided to keep talking. 

“So what are you doing this morning? Travelling, heading to work?”

Craig handed him his license and registration. “My insurance card is on my phone, hold on.” The officer assured him that wasn’t an issue, but seemed to want an actual answer. “Dropping off a delivery in Colorado City.” He didn’t want to give him too much unnecessary information. Not that he was doing anything wrong. “I, uh, work at a bakery. Some school catered a bunch of cupcakes.” 

The cop leaned in enough to see the boxes of cupcakes secured in the back. “Oh, that’s nice. Guess they’re getting out of school soon, aren’t they.”

“I guess so.”

Craig watched the officer look over his driver’s license, flipping it over to the back, undoubtedly looking at his change-of-address sticker. “So what’s a guy from  _ el valle _ doing in Pueblo?”

Was he just trying to be conversational? Did he pick up on the music playing faintly in the background and this was his way of saying he understood it? Or was he just being a dick? Craig didn’t care,  _ really _ , but it was just annoying that the guy was just hanging here and there was nothing Craig could do about it. “Change of scenery.” 

That was a good answer. It wasn’t this guy’s business, anyway. Clearing his throat, he held his phone out toward the officer. “There’s my insurance.”

“Good deal. Lemme just run your info.”

The officer seemed to take his (literal) sweet-ass time walking back to his patrol car. Craig really didn’t know how long it took to run information, but it seemed like the officer did it with absolutely no urgency. Fucker. 

The minutes ticked by. He was only halfway to Colorado City and at this rate he was going to be  _ late. _ Fuck his life.

When the cop finally returned, he leaned back against the car door. Along with Craig’s license and registration, he included a card with his name on it — Tpr Broflovski, #3733 —and as Craig took the items, Broflovski’s fingers brushed against his. He even had the nerve to  _ smile _ at him. Asshole-eating dickwad. “You have a nice day and stay safe. Hope those kiddos enjoy their cupcakes.”

 

* * *

 

“It was just fucking  _ weird,” _ Craig said. His gaze drifted away from his best friend’s to the rush of cars passing them by as they sat in the outdoor eating area of Bingo Burger, waiting on their dinner to arrive. “I guess the card thing was for quality assurance, but dude, no cop has given a card before. Granted, I’ve also never gotten pulled over without getting a—why are you looking at me like that?”

Clyde took a long, deliberate sip of his beer. “Sounds like he was hitting on you.”

“Just because— _ what. _ ”

“Look, the whole thing is weird, like you said. Why else would he take his time in pulling you over, chat you up,  _ and _ give you his card? He—”

“—was probably following protocol.”

Clyde started over again. “He wanted you to know his name. You said he’s cute, you’re a hottie. Bet you a dozen doughnuts that’s what it was.”

 

* * *

 

Craig decided to put the whole thing behind him. There was no point in dwelling on it. It was weird, sure, and  _ sure _ there was part of him that was curious, but… Trooper Broflovski, despite being cute, was a cop. Even if he played nice in that encounter, he was a dick by virtue of being a cop. Only dicks became cops, and he didn’t have time for that.

A week passed, and nothing came from that encounter. Which was good. Totally.

It helped that all of that time was spent within the confines of Pueblo city limits, likely outside of Trooper Broflovski’s jurisdiction. The guy wasn’t even on Craig’s mind at all. Why would he be? There were plenty of men at there, undoubtedly, who had dark red curls like that. Or a nice ass. Or nice lips that looked like they were perfect for kissing. 

There were plenty of more important things to consume his attention. Like picking out a graduation gift for his sister. He stared blankly at all the ‘congrats, grad!’ merchandise in the small boutique that he thought would surely have something that Tricia would like. But staring at the tacky mugs and knickknacks, he decided otherwise.

Settling on a cheesy congratulatory card and gift card, he tossed the items into the passenger seat and got onto northbound I-25. He’d scarcely gotten past the junction for Pueblo West when lights flashed behind him. 

_ Are you fucking serious? _

He was certain he didn’t do anything wrong this time. Slumping into his seat in frustration, he waited for the officer to emerge from his vehicle after both cards pulled over. When the same trooper approached, Craig allowed himself a single, bitter guffaw.

“Good afternoon,” Broflovski greeted him. He wore those same shades as before. “License and registration.” As soon as Craig went through the motions of retrieving those items, he spoke again. Your left turn signal light seems to be out.” 

“What?” It hit him but a moment later, because he knew with absolute certainty that his lights were fine. “I might’ve forgotten to use a blinker when I changed lanes, but there wasn’t anyone else in the passing lane.”  _ Of all things… _

“Be that as it may, using your blinker is an essential aspect to safe driving. You should get into the habit of using it even if there aren’t other drivers on the road.”

Craig lacked the patience for this. He’d learned to drive when he was  _ fourteen _ ; he wasn’t an idiot. “Am I getting a citation?”

“No, not today,” Broflovski assured him, absolutely casual in his leaning against the car as he took Craig’s information again. “Where are you off to this time? Another delivery for Hopscotch?”

“I don’t work for Hopscotch.” 

“Oh, good. I always found their stuff to be on the dry side. The quiches are fantastic, though.” 

Why was this happening? This was bizarre. Surely this guy was just nitpicky about driving and bored. Craig resisted the urge to drag his hands down his face. “I really wouldn’t know.”

“Oh. Well, let me run your information.”

 

* * *

 

The third time he was pulled over, he knew without a doubt he’d done nothing wrong. It was mid-morning on a Saturday, he was going  _ exactly _ the speed limit, he didn’t change lanes. And yet, just north of Walsenburg, it happened again. The patrol car was parked on the side of the road, and as soon as he passed it, the lights came on.

Broflovski didn’t even pretense; when he approached the window, he pushed his sunglasses up into his hair, and for the first time Craig could take in those bright eyes that went right along with the smile.  _ Fuck. _ This wasn’t fair. Only one thing could be said with certainty right then: he hated him. Holy shit, he hated him so much. 

“Mornin’. How’s it going?” Maybe, just maybe, if he was lucky, this wouldn’t take long at all. Craig thought initiating things would help.

“Fine, fine,” came Broflovski’s response. Craig quickly noted that he didn’t ask for his papers, and didn’t offer him a reason why he pulled him over. In any other situation, it would have been immediate red flags, but Craig doubted that Broflovski had any malintent. “It’s been a quiet morning. Where are you off to?”

As much as he hated this guy, Craig found himself also hating the part of him that didn’t entirely mind talking to Broflovski. It was just the inconvenience of being pulled over, the frustration of essentially being trapped there until he got the go-ahead to leave, the stress of likely ending up to his destination of choice late for a  _ third fucking time. _

“Alamosa.” 

Broflovski nodded in acknowledgement. “Cool, cool. That’s a nice drive. What’s over there?” 

Was it curiosity, or was he trying to figure out something specifically? Craig knew better than to try to read into it too much, but it was baffling all the same. “My mother.” 

Broflovski shifted so his forearms rested against the open window. “A momma’s boy, huh? I like that.” Before Craig could even process the fact that this state trooper was definitely, undoubtedly  _ hitting on him _ , he continued. “Mine’s up in Denver. She was down here for the longest time, but you know how it gets when you get old. Gotta be up near the specialists and whatnot.”

“I’m sorry, Officer Brov—”

“Bro _ f _ lovski.”

“Officer Broflovski. But was there a reason why you pulled me over? Did I commit a traffic violation of any kind?” He was met with silence. “You’re aware that this is an abuse of power, right? You can just pull people over for no reason.”

“Have a nice day, Mr. Tucker.”

 

* * *

 

The morning rush finally ended. Working at Muffin Tops wasn’t so bad; there was a consistent flow of traffic throughout the day, but mornings were generally the worst. People wanted donuts, or croissants, or coffee. As soon as mid-morning came around though, it was at least on the slower end of steady. 

There was even a moment where the bakery cleared out entirely, which was something of a relief. It gave him time to focus on some of the cleaning now, so when they closed later it wouldn’t be as much of a pain. Especially in the back; in the rush of things, sometimes icing or bread seasonings got on the floor and the worst thing ever was to try to mop all of that up after it had been sitting there all day.

The front door chimed, and seeing as Tweek had his hands full with pastry cream, he offered to go to the front. But he wasn’t met with a customer; he was met with a dick. “Oh no. No, hell fucking no. Are you stalking me now too?”

“No, I—”

“What, so you’re saying you haven’t been pulling me over for bullshit reasons  _ and _ you’re not here at my place of work?”

Having heard the commotion, Tweek emerged from the kitchen. “What’s going—Oh, Craig, is this the hot cop you were talking about?” Craig was quick to shout a  _ no _ but he couldn’t do anything about his flushed cheeks. Or the way Broflovski leaned against the order counter. 

“You think I’m hot, Tucker?” 

“I didn’t say that.”

Broflovski hummed. “Your expression suggests otherwise.”

Craig groaned. “What do you want, officer?”

“I’m off-duty. Kyle’s fine.” Hazel eyes peered up at the menu behind. “I’ll have—oh, a biscochito and a shot in the dark.” 

“Anything else?”

“Your phone number, if you’d be up for, uh. Talking, or something.” 

Craig muttered something under his breath in response, opting to ring up his order instead. That didn’t stop Tweek from oh-so-helpfully chiming in. “ _ SEVEN-ONE-NINE _ —”


End file.
